


The Shots You Don't Take

by saintroux



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015 IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, Getting Together, Multi, Prague, Tipsy Fooling Around, hotel room shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintroux/pseuds/saintroux
Summary: Ever since he’d gotten confirmation that Geno was coming to Prague, Sid had been trying and failing to formulate some plan to get him alone.  It had been a long time since the first time—and maybe Geno didn’t still feel the same way—but Sid knew an opening when one presented itself.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112
Collections: Zhenyabest's Kinky Advent Calendar 2019





	The Shots You Don't Take

**Author's Note:**

> written for "tipsy sex/drunk sex" for the zhenyabest kinky advent calendar (2019 edition)-- the remainder of my contributions will be posted in a chaptered format, but this one was long enough that it got its own prime real estate. thanks to the usual suspects for the inspo. <3

Sid heard someone coming up from behind him, the sound of their feet slapping the concrete as they approached. “Sid!” the voice called. “Sid—slow!”

Sid stopped, stepping off to the side, out of everyone’s way. When he turned around, it was Geno half-heartedly jogging toward him, his body long and unmistakable amongst the thin crowd of locals milling the sidewalk. He was wearing probably the ugliest pants that Sid had ever seen: bright, garish red. The fact that it didn’t make him recoil on sight was probably evidence enough. He looked _good_.

Geno turned a wide smile on him when he caught up and Sid tried not to look straight at it. Ever since he’d gotten confirmation that Geno was coming to Prague, Sid had been trying and failing to formulate some plan to get him alone. It had been a long time since the first time—and maybe Geno didn’t still feel the same way—but he had broken up with Anna in the spring for some reason that Sid still didn’t know or understand, and Sid knew an opening when one presented itself.

“You eat lunch?” Geno asked, popping his sunglasses up on top of his head. Sid hadn’t yet, and didn’t really have any solid plans. But here it was, delivered straight to his doorstep: the opportunity he’d been waiting on.

“Are you even supposed to be talking to me?” Sid asked, because friendship probably wasn’t supposed to transcend international rivalries here, no matter how much he didn’t usually care about it. He smirked up at Geno and nudged his side. “Isn’t Datsyuk going to question your loyalty?” 

Geno scoffed. “Pasha don’t care, it’s fine,” he said, and then had the audacity to _wink_ , a little crooked, but charming all the same. “What I don’t tell, it’s not hurt him.” 

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes,” Sid said, but he was amused that Geno had picked it up at all, the same way he always was when Geno made jokes in English.

They went to lunch at some place with seating outdoors, nestled in a shaded courtyard between a number of old, stone buildings. Geno seemed to be familiar with the place, and he snatched Sid’s menu out of his hands and ordered for both of them: thick, rich coffee and sizzling kebabs and salads topped with pickled eggplant. 

“Hope you picked right,” Sid said, unrolling his silverware. It was true that Geno was a much more adventurous eater than Sid, but it was fun to pull Geno’s chain. He would try anything once. 

“Always pick right,” Geno said, stuffing a forkful of eggplant into his mouth. “You like, don’t complain.” 

Sid laughed a little, smiling and tucking into his meal. Under the table, he felt Geno’s foot kick his leg, and then come to rest nearby, their shoes brushing slightly. Sid tugged a little at the collar of his shirt. The food was, as always, pretty good. 

“What are you doing with the rest of your day?” Sid asked, wiping a napkin across his mouth, where some sauce had smeared. He didn’t have anything planned until later in the night, when some of the guys on Team Canada planned to head to some waterfront bar. It was only a few days until the end of the tournament and their shared national camaraderie; probably he would go, if he chickened out on taking this anywhere other than a quick, public meal. But he wanted an excuse not to.

“No plans,” Geno said, shrugging, his mouth still half full of food. “You want shop? You have time see sights yet?” 

Sid had, in fact, seen some of the sights. He’d been there for the whole preliminary round, and Nate had dragged him along to a number of places listed in some guidebook he’d filched from the airport welcome desk. It would be nice to take a walk through it all again with Geno, though—let the temperate late Spring air wash over him as he worked out how to bring up all the dumb shit he wanted to say.

“I could go for a walk if you want,” Sid said, and smiled at Geno fondly and leaned back in his chair to stretch his shoulders, which were still pretty sore from slamming into the boards weird last week. Across the courtyard, there was an old couple bickering over steaming cups of tea, and another table overtaken by a few busy pigeons. Sid let his body relax, listening to the background noise of a language he didn’t know, watching Geno slurping the end of his cup of coffee. He had a lot of friends on the national team, and it was always nice to see them, but old habits died hard, and the comfort of Geno’s companionship was a cornerstone of Sid’s life. 

After lunch, they walked toward the river, passing rows of shops with signs that Sid couldn’t decipher, the tiny English translations printed below. They went mostly unnoticed until Geno lingered too long in some touristy shop, dithering over different tacky keychains, and an older woman came up to them with a camera and an apologetic smile. 

Geno arranged them so the woman was in the middle, but his arm was so long that it brushed Sid’s own where it crossed behind the woman’s back. He kept shifting, the tips of his fingernails brushing up and down the skin of Sid’s elbow, and Sid clenched his stomach tight and concentrated on smiling and prayed that the shopkeeper wouldn’t take too much longer to figure out the camera settings. 

Sid’s cheeks felt tight when they left, and he tugged his hat further down his head in an attempt to obscure his face.

“You want head back?” Geno asked, catching Sid’s elbow in his hand, face soft like he knew that Sid was feeling stretched tight. “Someone give me good wine, it’s my room. Too many people here.”

“It’s fine,” Sid said, maybe a little more nervous about making this move than he thought he would be. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

The street they were walking along ended at the Charles Bridge, which Sid had always loved. It was full of people at this hour, and it would probably be relatively easy for them to blend into the crowd. They could stand over the river and stare at the old buildings, and maybe Sid would find an opportune moment to stare at the shape of Geno’s face instead, the curve of his mouth, his heavy brow. 

But if they headed back to the hotel, Sid could take off his shoes and let Geno ply him with wine and pretend it was an accident. He would be able to look his fill there, every single moment opportune, with only Geno to catch him. 

“Is anyone staying with you?” Sid asked, as they neared the foot of the bridge. If Geno didn’t have a roommate, then maybe they could—there was no way Sid was dumb enough to turn down this chance. “I could go for some free wine.” 

“It’s Kolya,” Geno said, “but he tell me he’s go to bar with Pasha today, so—probably he’s not there.” 

Sid let the idea slosh around in his head for a moment. At worst, they would hang out with Kulemin for a while, the three of them sharing wine politely until Sid begged off to hang out with his teammates. At best, he would have Geno alone and comfortable, and he could actually do something about it, for once in the past six years. 

“I’ll take my chances,” Sid said, turning toward Geno and letting his smile spread up the curve of one cheek, the crooked smile that always got him into full restaurants and stranger’s beds. “Let’s get out of here.”

///

Kulemin wasn’t anywhere to be found when they got to Geno’s room, the beds both unmade and the room abandoned, the curtains open and letting in the warm spring light. Sid wasn’t sure which bed was Geno’s, so he went over to sit on the ottoman by the window instead, pulling his feet up under his body and wiggling his toes inside his socks.

“How was the game yesterday?” Sid asked, as Geno paced back and forth between the bathroom and the bar cabinet, grabbing plastic cups and uncorking the wine. He brought it all over to the desk and plopped down in the chair, pouring generous glasses and placing one in Sid’s waiting hand. 

“Classy,” Sid remarked, nodding his head at the plastic glass, crinkling a little in his grip, the kind the hotel staff always left on the bathroom counter. 

“Wine is good, don’t complain,” Geno said, rolling forward to knock their knees together. “Game is fine. Sweden tries to come back, but I say no. Want to win, you know? Want beat Canada.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Sid asked, swirling his glass around a little in his hand the way someone had told him to once, and then taking a sip. It was good, light and maybe a little fruity. He didn’t really feel the need to know much about wine, but whatever Geno had was usually pretty drinkable. “Maybe you’re being a little greedy, eh? You won it all last year.”

“Two for two, no?” Geno asked, smiling. Sid couldn’t exactly argue; he was wired much the same. The competitive spirit didn’t just die after you’d won once. He was well aware, and had been for the past six long years since they’d won the Cup. 

They drank a little in silence, long enough for Sid to stretch out a little and drain his cup, just looking out at the street below, children bustling around after their parents, Geno laughing loud behind him when one of them tripped over the cobblestones and fell flat on his face. 

Sid felt a wave of uncertainty wash over him again. Maybe there wasn’t a moment left for them anymore. Maybe the time for it had passed them by. 

But it was stupid—time wouldn’t pass them by unless he wanted it to. What better moment was there? Their team in Pittsburgh was a rightful mess, still, after all the mess it had been for the past couple of years. But it hadn’t stopped Sid from wanting. He could win: on the ice and here with Geno, he just had to keep trying.

When he turned back from the window, Geno had shed his track jacket and his socks, and was leaning back in the chair invitingly, reclined as far back as he could go, typing away at his phone with one hand. 

“Hey, Geno,” Sid said, reaching for the sweating bottle to refill his cup. “Do you remember what it was like to win?” 

Geno furrowed his brow, tucking his phone into his pocket and leaning forward, wine balanced on his knee. “To win? Of course, it’s just last year.” 

“No, I mean—the Cup, do you remember...“ Sid said and took a long sip of wine, long enough that it probably looked weird and forced. He wasn’t really sure why he had chosen to lead with this. Dredging up professional struggle wasn’t really a great way to get a man in the mood. “Actually, forget it. Let’s just drink, eh?”.” 

“Oh, Sid,” Geno said, his tone suddenly sad and knowing, his mouth a downturned line. He rolled his chair close again, and didn’t say anything for a minute before he got up and sat down next to Sid on the ottoman, close enough that their knees brushed through their pants. “I don’t forget, okay? I remember it’s so good, like—so much emotion, we’re best and then everyone knows it. It feels like—I’m so happy and it feels like everything worth it, then, because we win.” 

“You still think it’s worth it?” Sid asked, because maybe sometimes he didn’t think so, or he was worried that Geno regretted it. Sid knew that he had been a part of what had convinced Geno to stay—and he hoped that Geno still felt that way: the two of them together, Penguins for life. 

“Always it’s worth it, Sid,” Geno said, and reached a long bare arm past Sid’s face to grab the wine. When he put it back, Sid noticed that it was already nearly gone, and his body felt warm and loose now, floating in this weird lake of booze and dredged up emotions. “It’s worth it for me, play with you.”

“Same here,” Sid said, scratching at the back of his overheated neck. Playing with Geno was always exhilarating, a constant of his life for nearly ten years. He struggled to imagine life without it, and didn’t want to have to. “Winning with you was—it was awesome.” He let the memory of that feeling come to him: the ridiculous, invincible bliss. Holding on to the Cup, the parties, the parade, and what had come after all that, tucked up quietly in Sid’s room in the attic with everyone screaming and shouting below. “I really want to do it again.” 

When he looked at Geno’s face, Geno’s mouth was dropped open a little, cup halfway between his lap and his face, hovering midair. His eyes were intent on Sid’s face, like maybe he was thinking about it too. 

“You remember?” Geno asked, after a long moment studying the frozen lines of Sid’s face. He craned his neck back to drain his cup, and when he set it back on the desk, his arm brushed back and forth against Sid’s shirt without apology. “Not just win, but, you know, after—“ 

“Yeah, I—“ Sid said, and drank the rest of his own wine, bitter dregs sliding down his hot throat, and stacked his cup inside Geno’s while Geno looked on. He felt decidedly un-smooth, and was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t just him playing this game, that perhaps Geno’s intentions in inviting him out for lunch hadn’t been entirely chaste. Maybe they had both been waiting for this: the same moment. “You caught me, I guess.” 

Sid laughed at himself a little, and rubbed his sweaty palms down the legs of his pants. “I think about it, well—probably more than a little bit. It’s like,” he paused for a moment to catch Geno’s eyes, body turned toward him fully. “One of those feel-good memories, you know? Something to get you through the rough patches.” 

“Me and Stanley Cup, eh?” Geno said, his lips sliding up into a self-satisfied smile, leaning back and puffing his chest out like a proud animal. It was true that Sid had thought about it that way sometimes: maybe they’d win it again someday, and maybe he and Geno would end up in someone’s kitchen again, beyond stupid drunk and beyond stupid happy. Geno would follow him home and Sid would muscle him down with his body and his mouth and, well—there were a lot of ways to imagine it. 

They didn’t have the Cup now, but Sid could still lean over to put a hand on Geno’s thigh through his awful track pants and watch Geno’s mouth go soft, his lower lip wet from the pass of his tongue. “Yeah,” he said, and put his other hand on Geno’s other leg, nudging him until he folded it up onto the ottoman between them, fully within Sid’s orbit. “You think it’s a bad idea? Maybe we should wait until the Final is over.” 

“Maybe it’s bad idea, I don’t know—“ Geno said, scrunching up his nose like he was trying hard to think through his tipsy haze. “Can’t believe you think about all this time. You waiting for me?”

“I didn’t—“ Sid said, “I’m just going for it while I still can. Don’t wanna waste my moment, you know?” He leaned in close enough that he could feel Geno’s heavy breaths fanning out across his face, fruity and fogging up his skin. 

“Don’t waste,” Geno said, lazily shaking his head, “I don’t let you waste,” and Sid leaned in until he was cross-eyed and kissed Geno’s blooming smile. His mouth tasted like the lingering notes of the wine, and his tongue was forceful and warm, just like Sid remembered. After one too many bumps of their chins together, Geno put a large palm on Sid’s cheek, directing him one way or the other for a few moments until they fell into a rhythm. 

“I can’t—“ Sid said, laying kisses on Geno’s cheek, the side of his nose, his closed eye, until Geno’s hand pulled Sid back to his mouth. Geno’s pants kept making a stupid swishing noise every time they shifted in Sid’s grip. “Fuck, G. Have you been--” 

“I’m think,“ Geno said, his hand rubbing along the stretched out collar of Sid’s shirt. “Dinner at your house before playoffs—you’re drunk and sweet, hands on me so much, and I think, maybe, you know?” 

“Maybe, what?” Sid asked, even though they both knew the answer now. But he wanted to hear it, like maybe if Geno didn’t say it so plainly it wasn’t real. 

“Maybe you think about sometimes,” Geno said, ducking down again with his hand on Sid’s jaw for a short, noisy kiss, his thumb resting on Sid’s mouth when he pulled away. “Same like I’m think about.” 

Sid had been thinking about it on and off for six years, memories sneaking unbidden into his brain when he was out with someone else, or wedged up against Geno in the booth of a bar. When Geno tapped their helmets together each night, sometimes Sid thought about leaning in close enough to kiss him. The idea was well-worn, a nice fantasy, an opportunity he’d had once and maybe he’d have again, when they won another cup. 

He wondered when Geno had thought about it, over the years. Had he remembered, too, the way that he’d groaned as Sid had slid into him, or the blooming red mark he’d left just shy of Sid’s nipple that Sid had pressed his hands into for the better part of a week afterward. 

Sid spread out on the ottoman, gingerly resting his shoulders against the wall, careful to situate himself so he wouldn’t irritate his sore back. “C’mere,” he said, tugging at the hem of Geno’s shirt until Geno followed after him, unfolding his legs and settling down into Sid’s waiting lap. 

“I think you’re a better kisser now,” Sid said, and laughed at Geno’s answering scoff and swallowed Geno’s protests into his own mouth. The way Geno licked back and forth across his tongue made his whole body ache. 

“Feel you,” Geno said, sliding a hand down Sid’s chest to cup him through his pants, already starting to get a little hard from the wine and the anticipation that always made him good for it. 

“Yeah,” he said, and extracted his arms to fold them behind his head, stretched out so Geno could lie down on top of him or look his fill. “You gonna do something about it?” 

Geno kept him in hand, dipping his fingers clumsily behind Sid’s balls where it tickled a little, rubbing Sid’s inseam up against him until he got hard enough that it was uncomfortable to stay zipped. 

“C’mon,” he said tersely, trying hard not to squirm. He should have known that Geno would want to do it however he pleased, taking his sweet fucking time for no real reason at all like he did everything else. But Sid wasn’t prepared to wait, not when he’d been anticipating it for so long, not when they’d finally gotten the ball rolling. “Don’t just play around.”

“No?” Geno asked, and kept touching Sid just as torturously, dragging his palm over Sid’s rock hard dick in his jeans.

“I’m going to—“ Sid said, through gritted teeth, his arms tense from holding still. “C’mon.” 

“Hmm—“ Geno said, and stilled his hand for a moment and just looked at Sid, up and down, smiling that sly, thick-lipped smile that Sid had always loved, eyes a little blurry. “Maybe.” He leaned all the way in, close enough for their chests to touch, and kissed Sid with a smirk still firmly planted on his face. The hand over Sid’s dick wrestled clumsily with the fastenings of his pants, undoing the button and zipper and pressing either side of his fly back until the painful curve of his dick could pop up between them. 

“Fuck—“ Sid said, muffled around the liquid shape of Geno’s tongue, and kissed back as dirty and wet as he knew how, encouraging Geno further, greedy to taste him and touch him all over, after so long. He was eager to find out what was different, now, what changes time had wrought on Geno’s technique and his skin. 

“You wanna move to the bed?“ Sid asked, when Geno’s mouth moved to his jaw, and the warm space beneath it, behind his ear, just over the collar of his shirt. Geno shook his head and put his hands up under the hem of Sid’s shirt, big palms sliding up over his sides until Sid raised his arms up and let Geno push it up and off of him. 

“Look good,” Geno said, kissing his stomach and chest, and brushing his fingers idly over Sid’s nipples. The room wasn’t chilly, but it didn’t stop them from pebbling up, hard under Geno’s attentions. “Not so skinny now.” 

“When was I ever skinny?” Sid asked, laughing. Sid had always been a little thick around the edges, but Geno had been so slim in his youth that Sid was afraid a stiff breeze might knock him over, long and gangly, barely grown into his limbs. “Maybe you shouldn’t throw stones, buddy.”

Geno bit down hard on Sid’s nipple; Sid jerked up and felt his dick taking a shameful amount of interest. “Don’t make fun,” Geno said, and pulled back and sat up, ass firmly seated over Sid’s lazily spread thighs. “You like.” 

Sid did like it, and that was most of the problem, right? He’d liked it well enough that it had lay in wait at the back of his brain for the better part of six years since, cropping up like a persistent weed. “I do, yeah,” Sid admitted, and watched Geno’s smirk turn soft and genuine, his eyes openly gazing, soaking Sid in like a sponge. 

Geno didn’t respond, but he ducked his head bashfully for a moment, smile still evident, and then curved himself over Sid’s body, decidedly unbashful as he pawed urgently at Sid’s lap and popped his erection free of his underwear. He looked up at Sid once, and Sid felt twenty-one again, looking at Geno’s flushed pink, determined face. 

“Geno, I—“ he began to say, and then Geno bent to take Sid into the warm clutch of his mouth, and Sid forgot that he had even wanted to speak at all, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and watch his own hands threading into Geno’s soft hair, the shape of Geno’s nose and his dark eyelashes as they pressed against Sid’s skin every time he bobbed down. 

Before Sid really expected it, urgency was building in his gut, fizzing around, the muscles in his thighs tightening under Geno’s body. “Hey—“ he said, using the hands he had wrapped in Geno’s hair to pull him up. “I’m going to, uh—I’m feeling pretty close.” He didn’t want to shoot his shot before he had to, so to speak. He wanted to _enjoy_ this, and commit it to memory like he had the last. 

“Good, you close,” Geno said, breathing heavily through wet, swollen lips, the shape of them distracting and terrible and wonderful. Sid wanted to flip them over and have his way, press back into Geno’s mouth, get his own hand on Geno’s dick and listen to him moan recklessly loud. “I’m close too.” 

Geno tracked his eyes to his own dick, hard and obvious in his stupid swishy pants, a garish line, and Sid’s eyes followed helplessly and he groaned. “God—“ he said, “Geno, c’mon let’s—get up, let’s get in bed.” 

Geno listened, then, finally, tripping over his own legs in his attempt to get his pants and shirt off, looking every bit as eager as Sid felt right now. On the bed, Geno sprawled out in the mess of rucked-up sheets, his underwear still on, his long legs covered in bruises of various hues. 

“You gonna take those off?” Sid asked, as he shucked his own jeans and underwear, dragging them the rest of the way down his legs and putting his knees up on the bed. “Or maybe I’ll fuck you with them still on.” He felt elated, and took a long moment to just look at Geno, laid out for him in the sunlight, touching himself with a smile on his face, looking for a moment like he was still twenty-two.

“Who says you fuck me?” Geno teased, tugging Sid forward by the arm until he was on all fours above Geno, looking down at Geno’s hand moving inside his own underwear, shamelessly jerking his dick. 

“Mmm, I say—“ Sid said, and kissed him with a liberal amount of tongue, before pulling back up and looking down the line of Geno’s body, his hands planted on the warm muscle of Geno’s thighs, fingers brushing the hem of his underwear. “C’mon—show me,” he said, and nodded at Geno’s hand hidden under the waistband. “I really want to see you.” 

Geno was flushed from his cheeks to his sternum, and sweaty all down his neck. He looked Sid in the eyes and peeled his underwear down a little with his free hand, just enough that the elastic cupped around the base of his balls, his fist holding his erection up proudly for Sid to look at. Sid knew that he knew Sid liked it; as if there was any question. 

“Keep touching yourself,” Sid said. He sat there in Geno’s lap and watched him mess with himself, slowly at first, until his fist squeezed tight around his dick and he went after it in earnest, scrunching his eyes shut and back open with each pass of his hand. Sid pushed a long, calming breath out, and pressed his own painful erection against his stomach with the back of his palm. It was really hot. He hadn’t realized Geno liked it quite that hard, and wondered if perhaps someone had taught him to in the years since. 

Probably there were a thousand other things about Geno that he didn’t know yet, but he desperately wanted to start. Maybe they were finally ready. 

“You think you can hold off a little longer?” Sid asked. Geno kept making these stupid, half-pained noises, sucking his lip into his mouth, really putting on a show—but Sid could tell he was probably getting dangerously close from how dark the head of his dick was, and how shiny with precome. When Sid put a hand to his wrist to still his movements, Geno peeked his eyes open. “Turn over? I can take these off for you.” He rubbed his fingers along Geno’s arm and his hip, warm and sweaty. Sid had been trying not to touch himself, and he’d calmed down enough that he was mildly confident he could fuck Geno without coming in five seconds, and all he wanted was to get his hands and his hips all over Geno’s bare ass. 

“Mmm, no—“ Geno said, and smiled and opened his eyes only a little, a blissed out, half-drunk, defiant expression. “I can wait, but—want like this.” He pulled his arm free, and stretched them above his head, scratching lazily at his mussed-up hair, running them up and down the headboard. His legs wiggled around under Sid’s lap until Sid was mostly dislodged. “C’mon, you want fuck me, then fuck me.” 

“I’m uh—“ Sid said, and fell awkwardly the rest of the way off of Geno’s legs, and watched him spread them open and slide his underwear off and toss them somewhere in the direction of Kulemin’s bed. There was no way Sid’s brain would ever come back online at this rate, fogged so thoroughly up with how much he wanted Geno and the sight of his weird, long body and his dick hard and wet for Sid, his memories and the picture of the present overlapped in front of him. 

The sunlight was making long, bright shapes across the skin of Geno’s belly, warm spots that Sid could run his hands over as he snugged himself up in the space between Geno’s open thighs. When he bent to kiss the mangled scar on Geno’s knee, their dicks slid together between them. Sid was seriously considering abandoning his plans just to rub off together like this. But he still wanted to—well, maybe he would—

“Sid?” Geno asked, when Sid had lingered there too long, staring at the patterns on Geno’s skin, mouthing weakly at his inner thigh. “You going to?” 

Sid shook himself out of his daze and looked up at Geno’s face, soft with confusion. “Sorry, I, uh—“ he said. Maybe this was a little much; the wine fog was hitting him like a ton of bricks, and having Geno in bed with him again after all this time was maybe more overwhelming than he had expected. Maybe he _wouldn’t_ last. “How about we do this, eh?” 

He ducked forward to kiss Geno’s jaw, and his cheek and mouth when Geno craned forward a little to accommodate him. Between their bodies, everything was wet from Sid’s sweat and Geno’s leaking dick, and Sid rolled his hips down slowly, once and again. “Maybe let’s just—let’s just rub off,” he suggested, and kept grinding while he mouthed at Geno’s skin. “I’m uh—watching you touch yourself got me pretty riled up.” 

“Sid—“ Geno groaned. He threw his head back a little until it hit his hands tangled up in the headboard. Sid laughed a little where he was biting down. It was nice to know that Geno was feeling the same shit; he remembered how much he had liked watching Geno lose it before, all incoherent and so noisy that Sid had to put a hand over his mouth to quiet him. But the walls of this hotel were old and thick, or maybe Sid didn’t care if they weren’t. He wanted to get off, and he wanted Geno to be loud. Fuck it if someone heard them. 

“Maybe you touch, still,” Geno said, when Sid wrapped a hand around them both so they could thrust through it. 

“I am touching,” Sid said, and squeezed his hand a little tighter still.

“No, I mean—“ Geno said. He shifted his hips around on the blankets, giving Sid a _look_ like Sid should know very well what he meant. 

Sid moved his hand down the crease of Geno’s thigh, and around to grab a palmful of his ass. “Here?” he asked, skirting his fingers close to the warm sweaty skin near Geno’s hole.

Geno nodded, his lip stuck firmly between his teeth, looking down at the dark space between their joined bodies. “Please,” he said, when Sid didn’t move his hand fast enough.

“Put your leg up,” Sid said, patting him on the ass and encouraging him to get his ankle up over Sid’s shoulder, just enough that Sid could comfortably thrust forward against him and maneuver his arm. He adjusted Geno’s leg into the crook of his neck, scratching against the grain of his leg hair until Geno moaned a little. “You ready?” 

“Yes—“ Geno said, like he was _more_ than ready and would possibly die if Sid didn’t get a move on right the fuck now. “You so slow, I can’t believe—“

Sid popped a couple of fingers into his own mouth, laving his tongue around them until they were suitably wet, watching Geno watch him with dark black eyes. “I’m going, I’m going,” Sid said, smiling around them and putting his now-slick hand back on Geno’s ass, right in the crease, pressing his thumb right where Geno wanted it. 

At the push of Sid’s thumb inside, Geno groaned and cursed at him, clutching his hands around the headboard and screwing his hips down onto Sid’s hand. Barely more than a knuckle was in, and Sid couldn’t believe how much Geno liked it—or even how much _he_ , himself liked it, his dick uncomfortable and swollen between them, leaking all over Geno’s stomach. 

He pulled his thumb out after a bit of teasing, and slid his middle finger in all the way to the join of his palm and curled it a little, the way he’d always found effective with other partners, tensing it and pressing around until Geno opened his mouth and yelped. 

“Fuck, fuck—“ Geno said, his hand wiggling down between them to palm hard over their dicks. 

“Good?” Sid asked, even though he was pretty sure Geno thought it was. He’d greedily watched Geno’s face the whole time as he pushed in and back out, his eyelids fluttering without thought, his mouth bitten and twisted up, his cheeks flushed. 

“You know it’s good,” Geno said. “Fuck.” Geno gripped them both in earnest then, the angle a little awkward from the top, but Sid was so close from watching him that he couldn’t have cared at all. 

It barely took a few more minutes of Geno’s hand tight around them, and Geno screwing back hard on Sid’s finger, tight like a fucking vice. When Sid got too close he stopped thrusting and just slumped forward, breathing into the center of Geno’s chest: hot, wet breaths, his hand stilled inside as Geno worked on him.

“I’m gonna—“ he said, barely getting it out before he clenched down hard and spilled out over Geno’s hand and stomach and dick, going boneless over him. He moved his finger weakly inside Geno’s ass, pressing down as much as he could with the inconvenient angle until Geno groaned and came himself, pulling his hand back and smearing come all up the center of his belly. Some of it was definitely going to get on Sid’s chest, but he didn’t care. 

“That good, eh?” Sid asked, as he extracted his finger and dropped Geno’s leg back to the bed, untangling himself and sitting up. He debated for a moment whether to head to the bathroom to wash his hands, and felt stupid and lazy and wiped them on his leg instead. He could take a shower later, probably, and feel like a real person. 

“It’s—“ Geno started to say, still lax and lazy, sprawled out in the sheets like a loon. He tugged at Sid’s arm until Sid acquiesced to lay down with him, curled up on Geno’s other side, the relatively unmarred side of the bed. “Don’t get up.” 

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, while Geno ran a thumb back and forth over Sid’s wrist. Sid looked out the window, squinting through the sun to the stone buildings and the cloudless sky beyond. 

“Just like you remember?” Sid asked, in the empty space. 

“Maybe it’s not—“ Geno said, and when Sid looked over at his face he was staring up at the ceiling like he could see right through it. “It’s not same, but—maybe it’s better.” He looked over at Sid then, his face still flushed a little, hair messy where it was smashed against the pillow. It had been an awfully long time since the first time, but looking over at Geno, Sid thought that he looked just the same—the same sly smile that Sid loved, the same sleepy eyes. 

Inside his chest, Sid’s heart flipped over a few times, contemplating the shape of what was probably the longest lasting love of his life. They had been too stupid, then, focused on frivolous other things, as kids were wont to do, but Sid had fucked and fallen a little bit in love with an embarrassing amount of people since then. Geno was still his favorite one. 

“Think we could do this again sometime?” Sid asked, sliding down into the mound of bedcovers and the soft warmth of Geno’s body. “Maybe not, like, before the tournament is over, because I don’t want Datsyuk to come and off me, but—sometime.” 

Geno smiled wider at him, and turned Sid’s face toward his own with a hand cupping his cheek. “I think about,” he said, but his smile betrayed his attempts at coyness. Sid could read the yes. “Maybe after we beat Canada, then we do.” 

“After you beat me?” Sid asked. “Maybe I won’t be feeling so charitable—you know how much I hate--” 

“If I beat, you let me fuck you, okay?” Geno interrupted him, and slid his hand into Sid’s sweaty hair and licked sweetly into his mouth, like things were settled, just like that. 

“Who says I’m gonna be in the mood to let you have anything?” Sid kissed him again and laughed a little into his mouth.

“Mmm,” Geno said, and scratched his fingers through Sid’s hair and burrowed down into the bed, manhandling Sid until Geno could curl up a little in the side of his chest. “I think you let—think you give me whatever I want.” 

Sid smiled down at him, and slung an arm around the back of his shoulders to hold him close. They’d need to get up in a bit, when Sid’s side fell asleep from Geno’s heavy weight and the responsibilities of their respective teams called. But for now, Sid was content to lie here, happy that he got to have this again, after all this time. 

“Just make sure we do it before we win the Cup again, okay? Let’s not wait another six years.” Sid said, as Geno’s breaths started to even out. He wasn’t sure they’d find the time to sneak away if either of them won the tournament, no matter what they planned. Sid didn’t want the long summer away to allow them to forget; he didn’t want any more time to pass them by. 

Geno was silent for a long beat, and Sid was about to assume he’d fallen asleep when he spoke. “For sure,” Geno said. “We don’t wait.”


End file.
